


I did one thing right

by ViolettaValery



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Angst, Codebreaker Alex Rider, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Scars, Soldier Yassen Gregorovitch, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26378767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolettaValery/pseuds/ViolettaValery
Summary: Yassen goes to war, and Alex gets the worst possible news: his husband was killed in combat.Three years later, it turns out he's alive. But will the man who comes back to Alex have anything left of the man Alex said goodbye to?A story of recovery.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45





	I did one thing right

**Author's Note:**

> So this just dropped into my head wholesale and I just sat down and typed it up. I posted it exactly as I saw it, no agonizing over it and over-editing. I will probably add more chapters showing intimate moments between the two as they figure their new life out, but this won't be a complete linear narrative. More like a series of snapshots. 
> 
> I have no idea when this is set - I imagined a sort of WWII setting, but in a world where marriage between men is allowed, and also stole some U.S. military traditions. So *waves hands* it's all made up. 
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift's "Call It What You Want": 
> 
> All my flowers grew back as thorns  
> Windows boarded up after the storm  
> He built a fire just to keep me warm  
> And I know I make the same mistakes every time  
> Bridges burn, I never learn, at least I did one thing right

Alex lives in dread of the doorbell.

He knows that if the news comes, they’ll ring the doorbell. All his friends know to knock. Sometimes, some delivery will come, and his heart will stop.

This time, when it rings, the familiar dread goes through Alex. But this time, he just _knows._ He touches the ring on his finger for strength and goes to open the door.

As expected, two uniformed officers stand there, holding a folded flag.

“Mr. Alex Rider?” one of them says.

It’s like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over him.

“No,” he whispers, shaking his head furiously. “No.”

They hand him the flag, while one of them begins speaking. “I’m sorry to inform you – “

“Go,” he orders them, sinking to the floor. “Just go.”

He doesn’t even have the strength to close the door. The neighbors can probably see him, sobbing on the ground like a child and clutching the flag to his chest, but he doesn’t care.

Yassen is gone. Why should he care what the neighbors think?

Folded into the flag is a letter, with his name in Yassen’s handwriting.

 _Alex,_ it starts. It’s crossed out, replaced with _Beloved._

Alex sobs so hard at that he almost drops the letter, and the words blur through the tears. It takes him minutes before he can see clearly enough to read again.

_If you’re reading this, then I don’t need to tell you I’m gone. I hope you never read these words, but I suppose if you see this, you are._

_I want you to know that you are the best thing that ever happened to me. When I went to war, I was called by duty, honor, but mostly, because I wanted to make the world a place the two of us could live in. I won’t live to see it, but I hope and pray that I made some difference, and that the world I left you in is one you can one day be happy in._

_Of course I want you to move on. Be happy. But I know you, and I know as you’re reading this words that you’re stubbornly refusing to even believe I’m gone._

Alex smiles at that, before he’s overtaken by another racking sob. Yassen knows him so well – knew, and now the man who saw his soul to its core is gone forever.

 _But I am,_ Yassen continues. _It will take you time to accept it, but you must. And when you do, do not feel guilty for it. Find what joy you can. Live. For me._

_All my love, forever,_

_Yassen_

Alex has to throw the letter aside after that, because he’s terrified his tears will soak it until it’s illegible.  
  


His superiors attempt to give him a leave of absence, but he refuses. There’s enemy codes to break and intelligence to analyze. He couldn’t save Yassen, but maybe – maybe he can save others from the same fate.

_Three Years Later_  
  
“Alex.” Blunt calls him into his office.

“Yes?” He doesn’t think he’s done anything to upset Blunt. If anything, his work has been exemplary. He’s had a breakthrough just recently that led to a decisive victory, and the war is all but over -

Of course, it’s impossible to fathom anything from Blunt’s expression. It is always a perfect blank. He could be giving Alex a commendation or ordering a court martial, and his expression wouldn’t change.

So Alex has absolutely no warning whatsoever when Blunt says “Our troops found some prisoners of war in []. Your husband was among them.”

“I already knew he was dead,” Alex says. Why is Blunt telling him this? He had already accepted it – reluctantly, and after many months – even if there was no body. The chances of him surviving, of him being _kept alive,_ were miniscule.

So it’s like a brick wall coming to meet Alex head-on when Blunt says “No, alive.”

He still shows absolutely no emotion whatsoever.

“Alive?” He croaks. He suddenly needs, very badly, to sit down. His legs have turned to jelly, and he all but collapses into the chair in front of Blunt’s desk. “Is he – “

“He’s been rather badly tortured,” Blunt says. “I’m afraid he may not be the same man you said goodbye to. But he is alive.”

“Is there – can I talk to him?”

“He’ll be on his way home by now. He should arrive tomorrow. But I do have a photo. For confirmation.” Blunt picks up a paper from his meticulously ordered desk and hands it to him.

Alex takes it with a trembling hand, dreading what he’ll see.

Yassen is – well. He’s alive, Alex supposes. But he’s skin-and-bones, clearly underfed, dark bags under his eyes and a haunted look about him. His hair is clean – he’s obviously been given a shower – but much longer than Alex remembers, and unkempt. And, just visible beneath his collar, there’s a scar on his neck.

He hands the photo back.

“Thank you,” he says.

“We’ll bring him directly to your home, once he arrives. And you can have the rest of the day off,” Blunt adds. “Oh, and send Carter in on your way out, will you?”

And that’s all the dismissal he gets. Blunt turns to his papers like the conversation they’ve just had is no more important than a coffee order. Then again, that’s Blunt. Alex is sure he has sent men to his death with the same sanguine calm.

The car that pulls up the next morning is a black Bentley. That must be them. Alex has been flitting about the house, restless and looking out the window every five minutes.

He’s running out of the house before the car has even stopped, and there, getting out of it – moving slowly, painfully, is Yassen.

He looks like the photo: skinny and exhausted, in a too-big uniform they’d found for him. He walks slowly, as if in a daze. He’s an entirely different man from the one Alex had said goodbye to, looking handsome in a brand-new uniform that he filled out perfectly.

But it’s still Yassen. Alex runs up to him and throws himself into his arms. There’s even wind, whipping their hair around their faces as he presses their lips together like in some movie.

But then Yassen stumbles at Alex’s weight in his arms and the force with which he ran into them, and Alex is forced to pull back.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t let Yassen go, holding his face in his hands, pressing a softer kiss to his lips.

“You’re back,” he breathes.

Yassen smiles at him. “I’m back,” he agrees, and oh, it’s so good to hear his voice, even hoarse as it is.

“Come on.” He looks around for Yassen’s luggage, but there isn’t any. Anything he had would have been taken, he supposes.

He takes him inside. Looking at the place as if through Yassen’s eyes, he realizes it’s like a time capsule. He hadn’t had the heart to change anything, and after three years, there’s still photos of them, the same furniture, the same throw blanket on the couch. He’s tried to spruce the place up a little, bright flowers in a vase by the window and new curtains, but almost nothing else is new.

“Are you hungry?” he asks as he leads Yassen to their bedroom. “I made dinner, though I’m afraid I’m still not much of a cook. Or if you want to shower first…there’s clean clothes for you. Or maybe you want to rest?”

“Alex,” Yassen interrupts. “You don’t have to treat me like a guest.”

“I’m not – “

Yassen smiles at him. It’s that same fond, patient smile Alex loves, but now it’s tinged with sadness. “It’s been three years,” he says. “I’m a stranger to you. If you’ve moved on, you don’t have to pretend – “

“I’m not pretending!” It comes out more vehemently than he intended, and Yassen flinches slightly.

“Sorry,” he says. “But I haven’t moved on,” he adds. “It’s just – I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through. I’m terrified because I don’t know how to be what you need.”

Yassen takes his face into his hands.

“I just need you to be you,” he says. “When I was – it was you that got me through it.” His hand goes to his chest, where the locket with Alex’s picture would’ve been, but of course his captors would have taken it. “Thinking of your smile, and your laugh, and your eyes. Smile for me, Alex. Please. That’s all I need.”

Tears prickle at his eyes, but he smiles through them. “I’m here,” he says.

“There you are,” Yassen agrees, smiling. It’s small, that smile, but it’s the first Alex has seen, and he thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen in three years. Yassen’s thumbs brush Alex’s cheekbones to wipe some of the tears, and Alex rests their foreheads together and breathes in relief.

Yassen is here. He’s _real._

“So,” he ventures after a while passed in silence, just breathing each other in. “ _Are_ you hungry?”

“Yes,” Yassen agrees. “I’ll just change and meet you in the kitchen, yes?”

“I’m afraid my cooking hasn’t improved in the past three years,” Alex warns him.

“I’m sure it’s still much better than what I’ve been having for the past three years,” Yassen says with amusement, but it makes Alex kick himself. Of course Yassen wouldn’t have had proper food in three years, and all he’d managed to do was remind Yassen of it.

He’s going to have a lot to learn about how to navigate this, and if anything, he’s more terrified than he was before. 

Yassen joins him in the dining room a few minutes later. He’s wearing one of Alex’s favorite button-up shirts, a blue one that usually brings out the color in his eyes and hair. But he’s so skinny that it’s too large on him, and Alex feels another pang in his heart. Here’s Yassen, trying to cheer him up, working so hard to pretend everything is fine, and Alex can’t even imagine what he’s been through.

He puts two plates of lasagna on the table. It was one of Yassen’s favorites, though of course Yassen made it better. The two places are set next to each other – he doesn’t want to be farther from Yassen than he has to be.

They dig into the food. Yassen’s hands, Alex notes, mostly don’t shake, though the fingers of one hand are decidedly more crooked. They must’ve been broken and healed badly.

“Well?” he asks after Yassen takes his first bite.

“You weren’t lying,” Yassen says. “Your cooking really hasn’t improved.”

Alex bursts out laughing, though tears also prickle at his eyes. Somehow, the Yassen he loves is still in there somewhere, alive after everything he’s been through. Alex is so unspeakably grateful, but also utterly overwhelmed at the strength that must have taken.

Yassen looks delighted to see the laugh on his face. And, for a moment, it’s like things haven’t changed at all. But there’s the scar on Yassen’s neck, and the haunted eyes and oh, how everything has changed.

He presses their foreheads together again, hand at Yassen’s nape.

“I love you,” he whispers through his tears. “I didn’t stop for a single day.”

As he had before, Yassen wipes that tear from his cheek with a thumb.

“Me too,” he whispers.

They return to the meal, talking sporadically. Alex doesn’t ask Yassen about what happened to him. He’ll talk about it when he’s ready. Instead, he fills him in on what Yassen has missed – Wolf and Smithers and Tom and Ayisha and Jack.

“And you?” Yassen asks. “What of you?”

Alex shrugs. “There’s not much to tell. Mostly I just threw myself into work. Haven’t really had much time for anything else. Ended up breaking the Enigma code only weeks after you –” a lump in his throat prevents him from saying anything else.

Yassen takes Alex’s hand in his.

“It wasn’t your fault, Alex,” Yassen says. “You couldn’t have stopped it.”

“But maybe I could’ve. If only I’d broken the code earlier, maybe there was a message. Maybe we could’ve warned you,” he insists. “I failed you. I’m sorry.”

“If you blame yourself for this, you are the only one of us to,” Yassen tells him. “I wasn’t captured because of you. I survived because of you. Please, don’t carry this burden.”

“I’ll try,” Alex says tearfully.

“Okay,” Yassen agrees.

They go upstairs to the bedroom. Alex undresses quickly, eager to get under the covers with Yassen and hold him close, so it takes him a few moments to notice that Yassen is standing by the bed shyly, still fully clothed.

“Yassen?” he asks uncertainly. He and Yassen have never been shy around each other; they’d fallen into bed very shortly into their courtship. 

“I’m afraid I’m not – what you remember,” Yassen admits with uncharacteristic nervousness. 

“I know,” he tries to reassure, feeling utterly wrong-footed. “But I’m just glad to have you back.” He reaches for Yassen’s shirt, telegraphing his movements. “Let me?” he asks softly.

Yassen doesn’t protest as he starts to unbutton it. Alex steels himself before he draws it open, and a good thing, too.

Yassen has lost much of his muscle tone, but that’s far from the worst that’s happened to him. His torso is covered in shrapnel marks, while an oddly-shaped burn creeps over his side. Even the bullet scar on his chest is far from the most remarkable thing.

Yassen is staring into the distance, not meeting his eyes, as Alex runs his fingers over it all. He’s pliant when Alex raises his hands one by one to undo his cuffs. But he takes a deep breath as he turns around, letting the shirt fall off him.

This time, Alex really can’t keep quiet. He lets out a horrified gasp as he sees the scars on Yassen’s back.

They’d _whipped_ him.

“Why?” he whispers as Yassen turns around to face him. “Why did they do this?”

“It wasn’t for intelligence,” Yassen says. And of course it wasn’t – Yassen wouldn’t have had any, after the first few weeks. Codes would have changed, and he wouldn’t have known any troop movements after weeks in captivity. It was just – pure human cruelty. 

He pulls Yassen into a hug. He thinks he needs to reassure himself more than Yassen. “You survived,” he insists as he holds him close. “That’s all that matters. You survived.”

“I survived,” Yassen agrees, but he sounds uncertain, like he’s not entirely sure of the meaning of the words.

Alex slips down to his knees, helping Yassen out of his socks, then reaches for his belt, thinking to help Yassen out of his pants. Yassen’s entire body radiates exhaustion, and Alex just wants to take care of him. But he also remembers how he’d loved kneeling at Yassen’s feet, running a hand up those muscular thighs and taking him in his mouth.

“Alex,” Yassen says as he feels Alex’s hand on his thigh. “I’m not – “ He clears his throat, starts again. “I’m afraid I – I can’t,” he admits, looking close to tears.

Alex wishes the ground would swallow him up. God. Everything he does is just making all of this worse, isn’t it? Of course it makes sense that Yassen wouldn’t be able to. Pain and trauma can do that to a man, he knows that, it had just never crossed his mind that it’d happen to _Yassen._ His husband, who was always so full of life, and stamina, and energy, and –

He feels suddenly so furious at all they’ve taken from him. From them.

But they won’t take everything. He won’t let them.

He stands up, cradles Yassen’s face in his hands again. “You came back to me,” he says firmly. “That’s all that matters.”

“Not all of me,” Yassen says. “Not even most of me. I’m afraid what you get is just - broken pieces.”

“Then I’ll help you glue them back together,” he insists. “And I’ll hold them in place until the glue takes.”

This time, it’s Yassen who tears up while trying to smile.

“You’re more than I deserve,” he says. “I thought of you, when they were hurting me, and it’s what got me through. But I wasn’t sure that you’d want what was left. Or that you’d even be waiting for me, after all this time.”

It hurts Alex to think that Yassen wasn’t even sure of his homecoming. That he might’ve believed, even for a second, that he wasn’t welcome here, in Alex’s home or his heart.

In _their_ home, that they’d built together.

“There’s no one else for me,” Alex says. Even after he’d accepted Yassen was gone, he hadn’t tried dating, hell, hadn’t even looked at another man. Why would he? The love of his life was gone. Trying to find someone to replace him was beyond pointless, not to mention painful. “There never could be. So let’s just go to bed, yeah? We can talk more in the morning.”

“Okay,” Yassen agrees.

Alex does help him out of his pants, and they climb into bed, curled against each other.

For the first time in three years, Alex sleeps well, but Yassen – doesn’t. He wakes Alex an hour into the night, tossing and turning. He’s thrown his blanket off, and is curled up into a little ball for warmth instead.

Alex has heard of this. Captured soldiers who returned home and didn’t know how to live with its comforts, who’d sleep on the floor or with the window open in winter because they couldn’t fall asleep otherwise. He’s sure the nightmares will come soon, too.

“Yassen?” he asks carefully.

“Sorry.” Yassen sounds guilty. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” Alex lies. “Are you alright?”

Yassen sighs. “I can’t sleep,” he says, pointing out the obvious.

Alex turns on the bedside lamp and sits up. It emanates only a soft glow, and the shadows make Yassen look even more haunted. He’s curled in on himself, his knees held up to his chin.

“What do you need?” Alex asks as gently as he can. 

“I wish I knew,” Yassen says. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” Alex reaches for his hand, squeezing it. “Everything doesn’t have to go back to normal immediately, okay? I don’t expect that. It’s okay if you can’t sleep, or if you wake me up, or if – if things are different. We’ll figure it out.”

Yassen squeezes back. “Then, if it’s alright with you, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Yeah, of course,” Alex rushes to agree, though inwardly he dreads the thought. Is that how Yassen spent three years sleeping? In the cold, on the floor, while Alex was here in his comfortable bed?

No, he can’t go down that path. He’ll drive them both mad if he does.

Mercifully, Yassen grabs a pillow and blanket, and settles on the floor by their bed. Alex turns out the light, but he himself doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.

Yassen seems to, however. Perhaps it’s the familiarity of the hard floor beneath him, or maybe it’s because he’s no longer subconsciously dreading bothering Alex by lying in the bed next to him.

Alex sighs.

This is far from the homecoming he imagined, but then again, what does he even know about these sorts of things?

They both have a very long road ahead of them.


End file.
